Of Fire And Ice
by FireFairy219
Summary: After the war, Hermione settled into the life she'd always known she'd end up living. But is it enough? DHr.


**A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY AN! :D So I didn't really have any ideas for a TVD fic but I hope you'll like this too! Also, SV hates me. Also, sorry for the long intro. It's been awhile since I wrote anything that wasn't school-related xx**

**A/N 2: I don't own anything really.**

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**Of Fire And Ice**

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**chapter i**

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She was sitting in her sunflower yellow living room, in one of the many comfy seats that were scattered throughout the room, just taking a moment to herself to contemplate. Just... reflect.

What exactly it was she wanted to ponder was still unclear as of now but there was a deeply rooted sense inside that told her it (whatever _it_ was) needed pondering.

Well, she had a clue of course (how could she not), but she needed to sift through the entire mess to determine the exact cause. Only then would she feel at ease.

She had that feeling quite often actually; the sensation that her head was about to burst with thoughts.

All kinds of them.

There were thoughts of the steady past, the inevitable present and multiple slumbering futures, the outcomes of all elaborated in intricate detail, of course (she liked to be prepared). There were thoughts about him, her, them and the world. Thoughts about work, home, fragile friendships. And thoughts of life, death and everything in between.

Being who she was, it need not even be mentioned that the range of them was quite ample.

Over the years, and most importantly during the war, she had carefully administered a catalogued system in her mind to cope with all of them (they were always _there_, in large quantities). And most of the time, that system would come through and make moments like these unnecessary. But it had been failing her lately. Terribly.

Unwinding moments like these then were her plan B in handling, essential in unravelling her frazzled, muddled brain bit by bit until it became bearable and organised again.

She often compared her brain to a hard drive in a human computer, and her friends – those who comprehended the concept – would laugh at the analogy. Oftentimes, though, she wasn't that far off.

Light was pouring through the large, clean windows that day, casting the illusion that the whole was on fire – the good kind, like that of a summer night spent at the beach, with a complete sense of contentment.

She leaned back in the chair, let the sun pierce her closed eyelids and revelled in the feeling, some part of her hoping that the slight burning that illuminated the usual blackness of shut eyes would eradicate some of her thoughts as well. It would certainly save her the dreaded trouble.

When the light became too intense for comfort, she averted her gaze to the ceiling and beheld the magnificence of her chandelier that hung in the middle of the room as a sort of centrepiece.

Light cascaded off of the hundreds of crystals, shedding an equal number of little rainbows all over the place. It had been a gift, given to her by her other half, and she recalled being utterly surprised by such attentiveness.

It was hardly a habit of his to meddle in domestic affairs, so imagine her astonishment when he gave her such a prized item too. Astounded into fainting, she nearly was.

He'd only smiled then – smiled and hadn't said a word, which was rather out of character for him. He'd held onto her waist should she actually faint, although she never was one to do that so easily as the next awed girl, and they both knew it. She had been the subject of Bellatrix' favourite pastime, for goodness' sake, and she hadn't even lost consciousness then.

But ever since, he'd grown a little overprotective of her, even after Voldemort was defeated. She supposed it was a nice quality to have.

It made her think of how it had been nearly five years since she wholeheartedly consented to alter her name and took on that of her husband.

They'd known years of love and devotion, of passion and reciprocated affection. And really, that was all she'd ever wished for her entire life, ever since Disney had corrupted her in her Muggle years: a real love and home for herself.

In fact, she should be bursting with happiness right about now, in her perfect home with her perfect life and the perfection that confronted her at every turn. _'Happily ever after, Hermione!'_ they would all scream, like they were wishing her a happy birthday and she had better be grateful for it.

She sighed.

"Mummy, Mummy!" a frenzied toddler bounded into the cosy room to disrupt Hermione's train of thought.

"Rosie, darling, why aren't you taking your nap? You know Mummy will be here when you wake up."

She soothingly took the child up in her arms – the little girl immediately clung to her shirt in near desperation – and guided her up the stairs to bed again, murmuring words of reassurance common on these frequent occasions where her daughter would wake up as if having had a nightmare. Which she probably had.

Hermione heaved another sigh.

She had foolishly been hoping that her life-altering decisions wouldn't have a lasting effect on her daughter, but she'd realised soon enough that that hope had been a futile one. Most of them had been, so she really shouldn't have been clinging to it the way she had. It only made her cringe afterwards for even entertaining such irrationality as well as for seeing how wrong she was time and time again. Two things that just weren't _her_. Not until then at least. Not until him.

One hand supporting the small child, she pushed open the door to the nursery and laid the pigtailed girl down on her pink covers.

Her eyes softened at the caramel curls her child had clearly inherited from her (though hers weren't frizzy and the shade was lighter), and at the vulnerable gleam in those piercing eyes she had definitely gotten from her father.

"Now go to sleep, dear. When you wake up again, you and Mummy will make some cake, okay? Daddy's favourite. What do you say?" She cupped Rose's small cheeks and placed a butterfly kiss on her forehead, smiling when she saw the child flicker a shy smile as well.

"Okay, Mummy."

"That's my girl. Now go back to sleep, sweetie."

Hermione checked one more time if she'd been tucked under the covers appropriately, and left the room to return to her interrupted moment of contemplation. She knew from experience that self-reflection overdoses were never good for her disposition but they were very needed at the moment.

Did she mention she sighed?

She entered her living room again.

It had been a sunny day as well, then. She remembered how she'd decided to take a moment to herself (much like this one though completely different in nature) especially since she'd had the day off and it had been a long time since she'd visited Diagon Alley as well.

That is, if one didn't count lunch and dinner meetings, or Shopping Sprees With Ginny Weasley. Personally, she didn't care much for the former, but the terror that is Ginny intent on finding a skirt is unequalled and quite disturbing, not to mention time-consuming and mentally, as well as physically, draining.

But not that day, because that day was an all-out Hermione day.

Seriously, she would prefer hunting for Horcruxes again over Shopping Sprees With Ginny, so it really wasn't that weird that she had avoided the Alley for so long. But she'd decided that, since Ginny had gotten married and was off to see the world with Harry for a couple of months, it would be nice to finally be able to take a leisurely stroll there by herself. Relaxing.

She recalled entering Flourish & Blotts first, deciding that her day would definitely be off to a good start if she'd had a chance to sniff up the typical smell of books first.

She'd swiftly run her hands over the spines and inhaled deeply through the nose, closing her eyes to imagine herself at the Hogwarts library, years ago her sanctuary for so long.

She'd continued along the ceiling-high cases, having come there so many times before that she knew where to step to avoid obstacles. Because sometimes she simply needed those melancholy waves of nostalgia to wash over her. It was her own way of paying respect to the past, to a time of carefree happiness and a time before the war.

But she hadn't taken into account living obstacles, the ones that could move at free will and interfered with her pathway, making her bump into them and stumble.

She paused for a moment and considered.

Was it... serendipitous? Perhaps, in hindsight. She'd rather not put her faith in fate, but she couldn't deny that it had every making of being so.

Clichéd? Very. She could just name five films by heart where a similar situation was the opening scene. Not that she liked watching those or anything.

And romantic? Not in the slightest.

_She was caught by strong arms belonging to a pale man, which made her think _'well, isn't this embarrassing'_. However, when she took note of exactly who the strong, pale arms belonged to, she was instantly on her feet again, a good metre or so away from said arms._

_She almost whipped out her wand in defence too before she noticed he was just holding a book. And unless it was a Dark Arts book containing anti-Muggleborn wards so that when she touched it, something horrible would happen, he didn't look like much of a threat. Though she couldn't help but think if this was planned in any way; she expected it even._

_No, upon inspection, he seemed as taken aback by their meeting as she herself – with a fair amount of disgust, which made no sense on his part because she'd done nothing wrong and she certainly hadn't planned this either._

_They stared each other down, just like they had done oh so many times before in another life._

_"Granger," he finally forced out. He was frowning._

_"Malfoy," she replied, slightly surprised he'd swallowed his pride before her. It just wasn't… Malfoy. "What are you doing here?" she blurted out, not bothering to hide her discontent and genuinely interested in his affairs at the book shop. Books were _her _thing, not his._

_"Well, seeing as I'm shifting through _books _in a _book _store that strangely enough sells _books_, I think it's safe for you to assume that I'm here with every intention to buy one," he drawled._

_Oh._ _Well, why did he have to do that now, of all days? His being there was a blemish on her supposedly worriless day, and she had every right to ask him that question because it wasn't like something he'd do himself. It made her suspicious. "Don't you have people to do that for you?" __Terrorised house elves, perhaps?_

_His jaw flexed ever so lightly and his eyes bored themselves a little more into hers. "I don't have to justify myself to you, Granger. The war might be over, and you may have come out as landslide winner, but that doesn't mean you can meddle in people's business just because you feel like it," he spoke softly, still wearing only a frown. The absence of his typical sneer, reserved for her, the Mudblood, and the blatant calm air around him were unsettling._

_She could've let him rile her up by that statement, of course, but she was no longer a 16-year-old, foolish girl that believed running into bullies was the worst that could happen on a daily basis. She knew better now. _

_"I was just curious, Malfoy. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to actually make something of my day, and I'd like to go to the fiction section that you're so kindly blocking." _

_He stared a little longer, then gently let her pass. "Good day, Granger."_

_Hermione's eyes widened and when she turned around again, she could only make out the swish of black robes at the end of the aisle._

_What just happened?_

_The remainder of her day was consumed by ordering herself not to think about it and by failing in not thinking about it. To be honest, her mind was running rampant again, as it was prone to do in situations she couldn't quite figure out._

_There were thoughts of Malfoy and his lack of comments on her heritage, hair, being or anything vile at all; rationality in hindsight that proved he hadn't said anything remotely offensive; and a memory of Harry telling her what had happened that night at the Astronomy Tower. They all made her a little squirmy. And intrigued._

_And it was at the end of the day, at five in the afternoon at Florian Florescue's where she was broodingly spooning a kiwi-mango-chocolate-chip ice cream, that she came to the reluctant conclusion that maybe, just maybe, that horrid, blond Slytherin was no longer the boy she knew from school; that he'd changed and grown up in the process._

_Maybe._

And that was the beginning of everything.

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**A/N 3:** To my subscribers: I'm not dead, let's have dinner? I've been super busy this year so I haven't been writing at all for the longest of time... but this girl's birthday is an exception, okay? Be nice.

x


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